


Ménage à Deux

by RaymondShaw



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Basically porn tbh, Draco Malfoy - Freeform, F/M, Harry Potter Fanart, dramione - Freeform, explicit manips, hermione granger - Freeform, made without photoshop, now with accompanying one-shots!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-29
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-15 16:34:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 73
Words: 6,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29067369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RaymondShaw/pseuds/RaymondShaw
Summary: "Ménage à Deux: literally translating to 'couple' in French, a relationship or domestic arrangement involving two people living together; referring to deep, private, or soulful intimacy between two people (acc. Merriam-Webster)."My contribution to the Dramione fandom - a series of explicit lovemaking manips featuring our favorite against-the-grain couple. Note that these were made (exclusively by me) entirely without the use of photoshop - just Powerpoint, Paint, and painstaking effort. Hope you enjoy!*DISCLAIMER: There was some initial concern over the characters' depicted ages. As far as I know, the body doubles are all well over the age of eighteen (I took the pictures off the Internet, so it is difficult to verify). Regarding faces, I have stuck to the last two of the Harry Potter films, where the characters' purported ages are seventeen and eighteen, the actors themselves being older than their movie counterparts, I believe; some of the faces come from times well after the Harry Potter series filming had ended.**UPDATE: Each manip will now be accompanied by a short fic! CHAPTER 3 FIC IS NOW POSTED.*
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 349
Kudos: 623





	1. Pants Down

**Author's Note:**

> Please appreciate that the making of these manips took a lot of time and trouble. I gladly encourage people to use them as they see fit - I only respectfully request that if you plan on reposting them anywhere that you ask me first, and credit me as their creator. Thank you!
> 
> Also note that these images are in no way meant as a commentary on the personal, private lives of the actors Tom Felton and Emma Watson who, as real-life people, are so much more than the characters they play; they are merely my facial casting choice. Thanks again!
> 
> A/N: From now on, all freshly uploaded chapters will be marked as *NEW* for 24 hours.
> 
> *UPDATE: Upon request of a reader - without whose support this project would not be possible - each manip will now be accompanied by a short fic! I am working on these one at a time, so it will be a good while before all chapters are covered...*

The brief roar of the floo and the mildly disconcerting sound of a body hitting the lounge were the only indicators to Hermione Malfoy, née Granger, that her husband was home.

Standing in their kitchen, struggling with a bottle of wine that seemed recalcitrant to opening by either muggle or magical means, she counted – slowly and steadily – to ten.

And back.

And…back again.

At which point, she determined further investigation was in order.

Legs splayed, head back, one arm thrown carelessly over his face, the last pureblood scion of the noble House of Black lay sprawled across the couch cushions – the very picture of weary dejection. Inwardly, Hermione sighed: though it was years since their school days and the unfortunate hippogriff incident in third, it seemed Draco never would outgrow his flair for the dramatic.

“Long day at the office?” she murmured, her tone projecting considerably more amusement than sympathy.

It took a moment, but then the arm covering resolutely closed eyes lifted and reached out…blindly, lackadaisically.

“Come here, you.”

Biting the inside of her cheek to hold in an undignified giggle, Hermione obligingly went – and was summarily, unceremoniously pulled into the blond wizard’s lap. The not-undeliberate wiggle of her hips against his as she settled herself in comfortably procured a belly-deep groan of satisfaction.

“Would’ve been home _hours_ ago, if not for that ignoramus Andicott.” The complaint came out somewhat muffled, spoken as it was against the delicate skin marking the junction of her neck and collarbone. The gentle vibrations sent a delightful shiver of anticipation zinging down Hermione’s spine.

“Illiterate twat filed a request for a portkey to Grenada instead of Granada – ended up in the Caribbean when he should have been attending the annual conference in Spain.” Both arms snaked around her waist, wandering hands seeking out the hem of her ‘house only’ polo-neck and slipping under. “Being resources didn’t catch the mistake until _after_ his departure, of course.” Hermione hummed her approval and shifted deeper into his embrace. “Paperwork damn near snowed me under...”

Pattern-tracing fingers suddenly stilled, and dove-grey eyes opened onto hers: soft, with a trace of anxiety. “Did I utterly ruin dinner?”

“Well, the stroganoff’s a write-off by now – cooking stasis charms only hold for _so_ long, you know…” Hermione’s own fingers were roving now, weaving into the baby-fine strands at the base of Draco’s skull, scritching soothingly. In response, his hold on her hips tightened. “So, _this_ late, it’ll have to be take-out, I’m afraid.” They climbed down, playing along the rim of his collar before loosening the Windsor knot of his tie, tugging the silk free. One Oxford shirt button was freed, then two, before Draco’s hand closed over hers as it worked on the third.

Hermione’s eyes looked up to meet his – dark, pupil-blown, and full of wicked promise.

Purposefully she licked her lips, just to see those thin, twin halos of mercurial silver contract further…

“But,” she added, as if it were an afterthought, “ _dessert_ may still be on the menu…”

Draco’s eyes devoured her – black, and shark-hungry. “Excellent,” he said, words husky and pitched dangerously low, the usual posh crispness of his syllables stripped clean away by raw desire.

Arousal simmered in the pit of Hermione’s belly.

“I believe I’ll take my serving _now – right here._ ” Large, limber-fingered hands gripped the bottom of her polo-neck and yanked decisively upward.

In short order, her worn denims, along with her utilitarian cotton bra and knickers, joined it in a sorry-looking heap on the floor – atop Draco’s dropped and neglected work valise. Naked as the day she was born, Hermione could only gasp in pleasure as her husband’s gaze and hands roamed indiscriminately over her bare skin.

But…one had to make at least cursory observance of the formalities… “Draco,” she got out hoarsely, as lips descended on her vulnerable pulse point and sucked, _hard,_ “What about the take-out? We’ll _have_ to order soon if you want any supper at all tonight – ”

Her words were swallowed by a roughly ardent kiss.

“Take-out can wait until _later._ The _only_ thing I want for dinner right this minute is _you,_ witch.” His eyes flicked downward for a moment, giving himself a rather quizzical once-over. “And I do believe myself overdressed for the occasion.”

Hermione’s smile turned wolfish. “Not for the _hors-d'œuvres_ I had in mind.”

Chuckling a bit at his confusion, she gave the tip of his nose a quick buss of affection before her right hand stole in between his thighs and _squeezed –_ reveling in the stifled oath the move elicited.

Shimmying lightly off his lap, Hermione knelt sideways on the couch, her fingers busying themselves with Draco’s trouser placket. Instinct borne of habit had his hips lifting to aid her, a hiss escaping through clenched teeth in anticipation, as she tugged his pants down to mid-thigh with unnecessary impatience.

“Mmmmm…now _that’s_ a pretty sight.”

How many people, she mused – herself obviously notwithstanding – discerned that pristine and well-pressed exterior hid an apparent disdain for undergarments? Sliding forward on her elbows, she took him firmly in hand, fingers only just meeting in a circle.

“You know,” Draco managed, breathing somewhat harshly through his nose, “one day I should take offence. It’s not… _pretty._ ”

“Oh, hush,” Hermione chided, only half-playfully. “It’s true, and you know it.”

The ‘it’ in question, currently bobbing proudly less than an inch away from her forehead, was – by purely objective standards – _very_ pretty. Covered in skin pale as that on his body, feeling to the touch like satin over steel; long, lean, and flawlessly proportioned, like the rest of him.

Now flushed a rosy hue, glistening at the tip that already leaked pre-cum, it was – in Hermione’s enviable estimation – quite _perfect._

“It’s lovely. _You’re_ lovely,” she amended, and watched the shells of his ears go pink at the compliment.

Bending down, arse high in the air, Hermione pressed a soft kiss to the head of Draco’s cock, tongue working at the weeping slit in a soft, kittenish lapping that had his jaw dropping, before pulling away – to lick a broad stripe up the underside from root to crown, teasing and tickling the sensitive frenulum until the muscles of the thigh under her forearm pulled taut and a strangled moan wrenched from Draco’s throat.

“Sweet Circe, witch,” he rasped, “you surely know how to welcome a man home.”

“I believe Circe was, according to legend, a hinderance to Odysseus’ homecoming,” Hermione said, slightly garbled, around her mouthful of his balls. Not waiting for a reply, her lips kissed their way back up on a microscale odyssey of their own – and then she took a deep breath, relaxed her jaw, and sank down…and down…until the tip of him nudged the back of her throat.

“ _Salazar,_ ” came the fervent, quavering whisper from above. A shaky hand threaded its way into the hair at the back of her head, fingers knotting in the unruly curls.

Coming up for air, Hermione spat in her palm, wrapping it around Draco’s shaft at the base; pumping him once, twice, three times in long, steady pulls each ending in a twist at the tip like turning a screwdriver – a trick both her book learning and hands-on experience had taught her.

“Fuck,” Draco swore gutturally. “Fuck. _Fuck…Granger!_ ”

Now hand and mouth worked in tandem, fingertips gliding over skin her lips couldn’t comfortably reach, as his breathing shortened to frenetic pants. The fingers in her hair pulled, trembling.

Yes, Hermione thought, as the hand on her back trailed south to skim the dripping patch of flesh between her own thighs, the take-out could most certainly wait until later. The dessert was proving _par excellence_ – and its proper, full consumption was clearly going to take some time.


	2. Through His Eyes

The sight of Hermione Granger’s head steadily bobbing up and down, up and down between his legs was something, Draco Malfoy had decided, he wanted burned permanently into the backs of his eyelids.

Fisting his hands even more firmly – more _desperately_ – in the blankets covering the bed in his room of the Hogwarts’ Heads suite, it was all he could do to maintain a grip on his increasingly slipping composure.

Tonight was a night of firsts, for both of them – Draco’s first time receiving a blowjob from Hermione; Hermione’s first blowjob, period.

His lips curled at the corners as he smiled faintly, remembering how her nose wrinkled at the word ‘blowjob’; she preferred the term ‘fellatio’ – said it made the process sound more dignified.

 _Granger,_ he’d said, _when you’re on your knees with a bloke’s cock stuffed down your throat, there’s no place for ‘dignified’._

After all this time, he should have known better, really. Hermione wore her dignity quietly – with a subtle grace – but stolidly…like an armor-plated cloak.

Her mouth on him slid all the way from tip to base, making slick sounds that had the rush of blood pumping at racing speed through his veins feel lit on fire, and the slight smirk slid from his face with a gasp.

“Fuck… _just_ like that…”

In a way, it had been – and still was proving to be – a year of firsts. With the death of Voldemort and the subsequent end of the Second Wizarding War had come the rash of hastily-conducted Death Eater trials – of which he and his family had been a part. Start of term had seen his father sentenced to the Kiss, his mother on house arrest, and himself fresh out of Azkaban on very tenuous probation, under strict magical restriction and forbidden to associate with any persons deemed to have been on the “wrong side” of the War.

Thus had he arrived on platform nine and three quarters for his eighth – stripped of his shell of pride; alone, friendless, and equipped for certain failure.

McGonagall’s announcement by owl of his appointment to Head Boy – a post he’d always coveted, perhaps one of the few trivial accolades he’d ever sought after for not entirely selfish reasons – had left him, the Ministry’s latest straw man, numb where he should have been crowing in elation.

The news that Hermione Granger would be sitting for her N.E.W.T.S. as Head Girl had made him sit up sharp.

He’d had no idea what to expect would come of their enforced collaboration; in truth, neither, he thought, had their newly-minted headmistress, though she’d appeared calm and unruffled as ever as she’d discussed shared duties and the password to their rooms.

Her cultivated poise had, irrationally, infuriated him.

_This girl – woman – has been tortured in my own home, by my own flesh and blood. She should refuse, if not outright reject, being made to come within even a hundred yards of me…_

But Granger was not one to be underestimated. She faced this latest responsibility the same way she’d faced all those that had challenged her for seven years – squarely head-on, with the grit and determination to succeed where others had not.

She was a warrior, a lioness, by nature – prepared to fight.

What he had not anticipated was her expecting him – the snake, the coward – to fight, too.

She objected vehemently to the mockery large factions of the student body – including members of his own house (which stung the worst) – made of his authority. Seeing him struggle in class, she protested and got exemptions to the limitations put on his magic – including the use of his wand. Pitying his loneliness, she secretly ferried probation-violating messages between him and his three oldest, truest friends – Pansy, Blaise, and Theo. She defended their construed-as-unorthodox association to anyone who dared to hold an unfavorable opinion.

She ignored the hisses of “Death Eater” and “Mudblood Whore” and the pettily-cast hexes in the hallways.

She accepted without question or hesitation – as was her rightful due – his hesitant and broken apology once he’d built up the scant store of courage necessary to deliver it, as she deserved.

Her constant presence – initially considered a superfluous burden – had gradually become an anchor; her support, a touchstone.

Early morning rousings no longer seemed so dismal, with her freshly-scrubbed face and cup of tea brewed muggle-style waiting for him in their common room.

Study periods became the scenes of lively debates, from which both parties came away having learned something new.

Paired patrols which saw them walking in lock-step felt like…approval, like a warm clap on the back from a mentor (or a _father_ ) – always yearned for, but never received.

Nightmares no longer dogged his sleeping hours so relentlessly since she fell asleep on him during a late-night exam review – sitting on the couch with her head pillowed on his shoulder, slow breaths deep and even; the gentle rise and fall of her chest a sight of calm and peace.

She was there for him, listening without judgement when he told her of his childhood rearing as little lordling of a manor with the world on a silver string.

She was there, to lend a sympathetic ear when he fretted about his mother, who hung on his every letter, left alone to rattle around a huge estate without so much as a house-elf for company.

She was _there,_ eyes reddened and arms open, when the letter he’d been dreading came to inform him he was now officially an orphan; when he sobbed the last of his little boy’s heart out mourning a father he never could stop loving.

She was _there,_ on the roughly stumbling days when the wreckage of his once brightly shining future seemed like fetters ‘round his ankles – _there, always there,_ with a hand out…offering him a leg up.

Somewhere, somehow, they became… _friends._

And so, he was determined to be there, for _her._

He was there, when she wove stories of a little girl who’d grown up knowing what it was like to be the only one who was different and having to hide it.

He was there, guilt-riddled remorse eating at him as she described the joy of finding out magic, which wasn’t supposed to exist, was real – and the disappointment of realizing she was still an outcast, still a _freak,_ because it didn’t run in her family.

He was there, as she worried over her friends – over Harry and Ron limiting their career choices by not continuing their education, over Ginny’s pursuit of professional quidditch rather than a ‘steady job’, over the Patil twins’ unswerving faith in divination predictions.

He was there, with strength she could lean on when she admitted how much she missed them, now that they were no longer here.

He was _there,_ with soothing murmurs and caresses, the nights she woke thinking she was still on the run, or – worse yet – on his drawing-room floor with his mad aunt looming over her, cursed blade in hand.

He was _there,_ rocking her all night long while she wept into his chest after winter hols were over and she returned from Australia with a tan and the knowledge that the Obliviation on her parents was apparently irreversible.

And then, quite suddenly…they became _more than friends –_ after another Yule Ball and a traditional, obligatory shared dance led to a careless, ill-timed comment recalling his opinion on the appearance of her dress in fourth year…which led to their kissing behind a tapestry of dryads on a second-floor corridor, hands buried in hair and mouths fused together – kissing frantically, as though trying to drink the last breath from each other’s lungs.

There were no more words between them that night, only urgent, fervent movement…of shedding clothes, of grafting skin to skin; of the shuddering, explosive birth of a new emotion – beautiful and fragile as a soap bubble – settling between them.

For him, there were rarely any words, he found. He was not like her; turns of phrase and the ‘right thing to say’ did not spring so easily to his tongue as they once had…

So, he showed her, instead.

He showed her, as he sent a carefully-worded owl to his mother and defended their relationship to his friends and hers, alike.

He showed her, when he wrote away to the wizarding libraries for rare tomes and obscure magical treatises that, while inconclusive, provided hope where it seemed there was none.

He showed her, with linked hands in public and excursions to Hogsmeade and twilight stargazing after curfew on the shores of the Black Lake.

And increasingly he showed her, at night when it was just the two of them, with naked limbs and lips and tongue and fingers and cock – showing her, with all he had to give.

And now, here they were – her on her knees with his dick shoved balls-deep in her throat; and him sweating, doing his desperate damnest not to _lose it._

She’d grown her hair out, and the straightening charms he’s been teaching her (which he used on his own hair) made it fall in a pin-straight curtain, soft as satin. The sight of it strewn across his thighs had his fingers twitching with the urge to bury themselves in the long strands, and his knuckles tightened in the twisted bedsheets.

He didn’t trust the fraying threads of his self-control were enough to allow him to be gentle.

Hermione looked up, tongue swirling around and around and over the crown while her hand fondled and pumped until his legs shook and he panted for breath – locking eyes with him along the length of his prone body.

She’d wanted to do this, for _him._

 _You’re always doing…things…just for my pleasure, when we’re…together, like this,_ she’d said earlier this evening, once he’d peeled her out of her weekend jumper and sweatpants and pressed her back into his mattress. _I want to be able to do that for you. Tonight…let me._

How could he deny her? He had.

Her honey-laced whiskey eyes remained riveted on his face, lips straining as she grinned at his gaping jaw but didn’t pull off.

Any other girl, he’d say it was showing off, solely for appearance’s sake.

Not Hermione Granger.

She was studying him as assiduously as she would a knotty arithmancy problem – learning what he liked, reading his tells from the jump of the tight-strung muscles pinned under her forearms and the hitches in his breathing…working to maximize _his pleasure._

How fortunate for him that she always had been a quick study.

Her hand curled around his hip felt it buck slightly as her tongue traced the thick vein running the underside of his cock – and so she did it again…and again, until a low, drawn-out moan clawed its way up and out of his throat.

“Oh, Merlin… _Hermione…_ ”

 _She wanted to do this,_ she’d said. _For him…_

As his back arched, head thrown back and hands trembling spasmodically over the covers, his mind condensed that verbalized desire into three simple words:

_She._

_Wanted._

_Him._


	3. Adoration

Standing in the dimly-lit bedroom with nothing but her modesty to cover her, Hermione Granger thinks:

_This…was a mistake._

A known fact: abnormally high death rates and subsequent population lows are a natural consequence of warfare, be it muggle or magical.

Fact: the wizarding community of Great Britain is currently, as a direct result of the Second War, in crisis.

Fact: the Ministry of Magic’s response in the wake of this urgent revelation has been the creation and timely implementation of a massive undertaking given the umbrella term of the “Future of Magi-Britain Project”…known in colloquial parlance simply as the “Marriage Law”.

Quite basic in conception, the legislation requires a witch or wizard of legal age or older to submit themselves to a ‘compatibility investigation’ for the selection of an appropriate spouse – the ultimate purpose of which is procreation. Choice made over the course of the requisite fortnight, a magically-binding handfasting ceremony performed by a duly-licensed Ministry official is to take place forthwith sometime within the following one hundred days; proof of consummation to be presented within seventy-two hours (three days) of the handfast bond’s creation. No divorce, and no annulment – excepting the case of inability to produce children.

Naturally, with the proposition of this edict came outcry, concerns cropping up thick and fast…

Question: How is ‘compatibility’ to be determined?

Answer: Via wand core analysis, conducted by no less than Ollivander himself; theory being that wand cores are representative of a witch or wizard’s magical essence and are therefore the most reliable indicator of congruency in a prospective life-mate.

Question: Do all witches and wizards of age fall under the jurisdiction of this law?

Answer: Only witches of child-bearing age and wizards below the age of ninety-three (how this number was arrived at has yet to be clearly explained).

Question: Will pre-existing marriages and relationships be put in jeopardy?

Answer: All magical marriages on the Ministry’s record-books are not to be affected.

Harry and Ginny escaped by a matter of weeks, having handfasted less than a month following the final battle. Likewise, Neville Longbottom and Luna Lovegood. Not so lucky were Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnegan, whose civil marriage was not recognized under magical law and summarily dissolved.

Neither were she and Ron.

Fact: the so-called “Marriage Law” passed seven months to the day it was first proposed by bill.

Also fact: every fibre of Hermione Granger’s being was – and is – diametrically opposed to everything it stands for.

In this, she has happened across a very strange, most unexpected, ally.

Governmental work makes for strange bedfellows – though none, perhaps, stranger than the association between the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures and the DMLE. As liaison to Magical Law Enforcement, Hermione’s duties very often have her crossing paths with Aurors and their cases.

Which is how she’d become reacquainted with a certain Draco Abraxas Malfoy.

Having seen little of the boy-now-man since the end of school and the War, being suddenly thrust back into his orbit had felt rather like a cold-water shock treatment. No matter – Hermione Granger was not one shirk responsibility.

She’d helped take down a Dark Lord. She could handle Malfoy.

‘Handling’, as it turned out, was not required.

If he'd been surprised to be working with her, of all people, he'd hidden it well. In all their interactions, he had been unfailingly, faultlessly – albeit coldly – polite. And his work ethic was second-to-none. All things being equal, their collaboration had been one of the smoothest, stress-free undertakings Hermione’d had since joining the DRCMC.

Pointed questions dropped into the right ears had yielded the following tidbits:

Fact: The end of the threat posed by Voldemort had seen the unflappable blond wizard lose everything – his father to Azkaban, his mother to France, and his Manor and its associated fortune to Ministry expropriation. Whatever else may be true about him, it could not be denied that Draco Malfoy was a self-made man.

Fact: Malfoy’s arrest record was one of the most outstanding the Auror Office had ever seen. It appeared these days he cared more for justice than he ever had blood purity.

Fact: What Malfoy lacked in amicability, he made up for in spades in respect. Partners could not admit to liking the former Slytherin – his icy exterior impregnable to overtures of friendship – but they swore to a man that they wouldn’t hesitate to trust him with their lives.

Itching to the soles of her feet with curiosity over this new, reformed personality, Hermione had nevertheless resolved to put the enigma that was Draco Malfoy out of her mind. His business was none of hers, after all.

Which was why the last thing she’d anticipated was the letter dropped into her lap by a regal-eyed eagle owl the evening the details of the Marriage Law bill were made public. Snapping off the Wizarding Wireless, she’d opened the missive, wondering who in the world it could be from. It read:

_Granger,_

_By now you’ve heard the broadcast – they’ve thrown down the gauntlet. So...do you agree to the duel?_

There was a post-script:

_Say the word, and I’m your second._

Signed at the bottom in a strong, elegant hand:

_D.A.M._

Hermione had sat, blinking at the parchment (its creamy weight bespeaking quality) for all of thirty seconds before her hand shot out for a quill.

_Why the interest?_

His reply was equally brief:

_This law tramples on the individual’s right to choose._

_Having once lived in a world without choices, I’ll be damned before I live that way again._

The next seven months had seen their correspondence gird them for a tooth-and-nail battle with the Ministry that should have been beyond the scope of merely two people laboring alone.

 _Her friends thought she was crazy,_ she wrote, _though not so much for attempting to sue the government as for willingly working with_ him.

 _Never mind,_ he scrawled back. _His friends thought much the same._

Through ink smudges and rumpled papers, Hermione Granger had learned a few more critical pieces of information:

Fact: Draco Malfoy – who shockingly possessed not only a muggle law degree but a Ph.D. in forensics, as well – had legal acumen that went unparalleled in the wizarding world. He amassed loopholes and uncovered grey areas of interpretation that even her keen eye missed, leaving no stone unturned.

Fact: Draco Malfoy – the boy who’d once bullied her relentlessly without regard – had grown into a man of principle. Through his impassioned arguments, which wasted not a word, it was clear that he fought – fought, where he never had before – not for accolades nor, in truth, much for the hope of winning...but because it was the right thing to do.

Fact: Draco Malfoy had very much so, Hermione admitted privately to herself, become a person worthy of admiration.

One week before the Marriage Law bill was slated to be brought before the legislature, the Malfoy-Granger v. Ministry of Magic case had gone to court.

And, as so often happens when the rights of the individual butt up against political agenda...they'd lost.

It'd helped, of course, that public opinion had been (somewhat ironically) against them. Turned out – when facing the threat of extinction, the majority valued survival over their freedoms.

Draco and Hermione, left without a legal leg to stand on, had bowed to the Wizengamot, licked their wounds and wished each other well...and had not been in contact since.

Once the ABCs had been processed and the Ministry had worked their way down to the Gs, the owl bearing the summons for Hermione’s ‘compatibility test’ had arrived at breakfast-time in the same ordinary way as the Daily Prophet or Witch Weekly, in a mundane manilla envelope telling her that one Miss Hermione Jean Granger was to present herself at Ollivander’s wand shop in Diagon Alley Wednesday next at three o’clock precisely for her examination.

And one Hermione Granger, in compliance such as befit an upstanding citizen, had gone.

Garrick Ollivander, looking old and inscrutable as he’d been when she’d first laid eyes on him as an eleven-year-old girl, had offered no greeting beyond a proffered hand for her wand. Handing it over, she’d watched – curious despite herself – as he’d performed an impressive series of nonverbal casts with it, taking careful note of the results and muttering measurements and characteristics to himself while a quill scratched away at a length of parchment behind him.

Suddenly, as mysteriously as he’d begun, the wizard appeared to finish, handing her wand back handle-first with a quiet, “That will be all, Miss Granger.”

“Well?” she’d flatly demanded, oddly impatient. “What of it? Which poor sod do you have pegged as my ‘soulmate’?”

“I am bound not to release the results of my examination to any person without proper Ministry clearance,” Ollivander had replied, in a dry monotone. “Your matches will be owled to you within the month.”

“But…is that all, then? I’m meant to just wait for a ‘stud list’ in the mail – without recourse to question the choices…to say nothing of your method of choosing, of which I know – ”

“Miss Granger,” Ollivander had broken in, a gleam in his eye Hermione could not make out, “what I can tell you, is this: You are – always have been – a most unusual witch…with a most unusual wand.

“Vine, yes? and dragon heart-string; ten and three-quarter inches. A precocious combination – for a...may I say...precocious young woman.

“Vine: with its endurance, perseverance, and great strength. Dragon heart-string: for power most potent, and a quickness to master.

“Your match…will most likely be found in hawthorn: its healing cloaked in harm your rock and wellspring in times of trial. And a unicorn core: purity of intention, to temper the dragon’s eagerness away from recklessness and ruin.”

With that, Ollivander had turned back to his shelves. “Now, Miss Granger, I’m afraid I must bid you good day.”

She’d pondered the wizened old wandmaker’s words with mounting skepticism for three and a half weeks...until the long-awaited, dreaded Ministry seal appeared in the morning’s mail.

With shaking hands, Hermione had unfolded it – only to drop it like a hissing snake to the floor, where the name printed neatly at the top of the page winked up her, mockingly:

_Draco A. Malfoy – match compatibility: 92%_

She ought to have remembered from their time at Hogwarts – he used a _hawthorn_ wand.

And for him to have been her top match...she, incredibly, must have been _his._

Knees of a moment weak, Hermione had sunk into her kitchen chair in appalled stupefaction – while, deep in her breast, her heart gave a traitorous flutter.

In an agony of indecision, she’d dragged her feet (and herself) through her fourteen-day decision-making grace period.

Her friends – especially Ron – had been verbose in their horrified sympathy.

She’d ignored their well-intentioned advice in favor of her own judgement.

On the twelfth night, Hermione had summoned ink and parchment – and penned a proposal to Draco before she could change her mind.

His prompt response, while only one word in length, managed to knock her socks off:

_Yes._

Thus had begun what had to be one of the shortest, strangest courtships in the annals of history.

They did not meet; they did not write.

She saw him exactly once throughout the entire hundred days – at his upscale townhome in a mixed community on the outskirts of London, where he’d gallantly pulled out her chair and they’d seated themselves down to discuss their impending marriage as though it were a common business deal...while his elves served a decadent tea so outrageously expensive, Hermione was sure, that knowing its cost would have her breaking out in hives.

“Freed – and paid,” Draco had mentioned, upon noting her moue of disapproval.

In addition to the Ministry-mandated handfasting, he’d wanted a Catholic wedding. Caught off guard, she’d blurted out, “Whatever for?”

“Apart from blood politics, religion is long-standing in my family,” he’d explained. “As one of our few worthwhile traditions, I find myself keen to perpetuate it.” Born Catholic, though not being of any particular religious persuasion herself, Hermione had found no solid reason to refuse.

However, upon one point she’d wanted absolute clarity:

“Will it bother you – that our children will be half-blood?”

“If I am to be blessed with little feet pattering about my lawns,” Draco said, looking as though he’d rather catch the croup, “I would sooner be concerned as to whether they run happily, than whether the blood in their veins is the correct shade of supposed ‘blue’.”

His eyes had been shuttered, flat as paned glass – and Hermione had known that she’d angered him.

“We all bleed _red,_ Granger. I know – I’ve seen it.”

He’d glanced rigidly at her left arm as he spoke.

After that, Hermione had questioned him no further.

The stilted remainder of the tea had passed broken only by the perfunctory exchange of faux pleasantries, until finally he’d stood – which she’d interpreted as her cue to leave.

“Will your parents be in attendance?” he’d asked, apropos of nothing, as he’d walked her back to the apparition point.

She’d shaken her head, closing her eyes against a sudden rush of tears; of course, there’d been no way he could have known. “No… They, ah – they’re permanently out of the country. In Australia, actually. I...sent them there during the War, so they’d be safe… Their...memories were wiped. They think they’re two childless dentists – um, teeth healers – who emigrated because they’d always wanted to.” Despite herself, she’d sniffled, a single teardrop rolling down her cheek.

Soft as a moth’s wing, a calloused thumb had brushed over her skin, wiping it away, and a gossamer handkerchief had been set into her palm. She’d blinked – and there was Draco, standing less than a foot away with both hands shoved deep in his stylish suit-jacket pockets, looking down at his boots.

“I’m so sorry, Granger,” he'd whispered – and he'd seemed so sincere, Hermione had yearned desperately to believe him.

“My own mother will not be present,” he'd offered, abruptly. “Since Father…” Here he'd trailed off into pained silence. “She has been...indisposed,” he'd ended, tersely; his eyes having that flat, glassy look to them again.

Had he been Ron, or Harry, she would have thrown her arms around him, then, and hugged him tight.

But he was _Malfoy –_ so, instead, she reached out rather timidly to cover his hand with hers, giving it a light squeeze of sympathy.

He'd said nothing for a long moment, then:

“Friends?”

“Oh, er – no,” she’d decided, spontaneously. “It would be too...uncomfortable. But, Harry will be there – as my witness,” she'd added. “You?”

“No,” he’d said, shortly; and Hermione had thought he’d sounded almost sad. “My friends and I don’t share the same views we once did. Although, I’ll have to have Theo, of course… Nott,” he’d elaborated, off her look of confusion.

She had struggled to dredge up the memory of a gangly boy with wavy, chestnut hair. “Oh.”

“Granger,” Draco’d said suddenly, and she’d looked up at him – and for a glaring instant, his _eyes_ had been…

And then it was gone – so quickly Hermione’d thought she must have imagined it.

“You did the right thing, you know,” he’d continued, without missing a beat. “I mean, for your parents.” His voice had sounded odd - stuffy; choked, even. “The Dark – Voldemort, he’d...ordered MacNair to root them out. Your sending them away...you saved their lives.”

She’d nodded her thanks, unable to speak, and waggled her fingers at him awkwardly in lieu of a wave.

“Well...goodbye.”

And then she’d turned her back on him, spun on the spot, and disappeared.

At home, she’d found herself with more questions than answers. Was that look in his eyes really only in her imagination? Or had Draco, in actuality, intended to tell her something else? She’d walked on numb feet to her living room, unrolled the crumpled ball of his kerchief still clutched in her fist so it lay flat against the polished wood of her little coffee table – and stared at the fine stitching of the emerald-green curlicues in the corners until they blurred.

The next time she’d seen him had been before the altar of a quaint little chapel in the French quarter, a priest reciting prayers over them in archaic Latin as by turns they stood and knelt and received the consecrated host upon their tongues – she in pure white as became a virgin bride; he in a pearl-shaded tuxedo that brought out the grey in his impenetrable eyes.

The ceremony had flown by in a haze of candle-smoke and incense – all too soon, Theo and Harry stepping forward as a ring had been slid onto the fourth finger of her left hand.

The delicate golden metal had felt cold against her skin – but Draco’s gaze was fever-bright, rooting her to the spot like an exotic butterfly caught and pinned in an enthusiast’s collection...and Hermione had been unable to look away as she repeated faithfully after the presider:

_“With this ring, I thee wed…”_

The words of the vow rolled off her tongue...but all she could concentrate on was the gentle, barely-there sweep of a thumb across her cheek, the shocking warmth of the hand beneath her own –

And a pair of oh-so-earnest eyes that burned like molten silver.

Wizarding marriage was quite different, she’d discovered – and, yet, somehow, the same.

The handfasting had found them entirely alone at the centre of a druid’s circle, the focal spoke of a wheeling mandala inscribed with countless runes representing the four elements, prosperity, longevity, fertility...and more besides.

Gone were their elegant clothes – instead, each had worn a simple cream shift that fell to bare ankles, for they had worn no shoes. Underneath it, they had been bare...which had made Hermione fight the urge to fidget in embarrassed discomfiture.

They spoke their vows – a Celtic verse – in tandem, forearms clasped and bound...and with each phrase of the rhyme Hermione felt the binding magic seep beneath her skin like rainwater, gently pulsating.

Draco’s eyes had again carried that nameless sheen, locked on hers in a gaze she could not break – and her one reassurance had been that magic – especially such ancient magic – could not lie...and every warming pulse of Draco’s solemn oaths passing through her bones told her he spoke true.

He’d meant every word.

And again, her heart had fluttered.

But tonight...tonight they are to _lie together,_ for the first time – as true husband and true wife…

And Hermione is... _afraid._

She is bound, for the rest of her natural life, to _Draco Malfoy –_ to bear his children, to raise a family with… 

A man who _did not want_ to marry her.

A man she has only ever caught half-fleeting glimpses of, and still does not really know.

A man she _does not love._

What is to become of them?

The bedchamber door swings slowly open, breaking in on her musings – admitting an also-naked Draco to the room.

His mask of indifference has slipped this night – his face is moon-pale; his eyes wide and sheepish, nearly nervous, as he steps towards her on coltish legs.

A foot away, he stops, and cautiously reaches out a hand.

Hermione makes herself take it – and, together, they totter to the bed; sitting perched on its edge facing each other, timorous as two rabbits, primed and ready to bolt.

At such close range, nudity is no longer sufficient distraction, and Hermione’s gaze falls to her lap.

A gentle palm cupping her jaw makes her flinch, has her looking up –

Again to be met by those earnest, ardent dove-grey eyes...eyes that she cannot break away from; that drown her, and will forever hold her captive...

Eyes, she only just now realizes, are lambent and glistening with unshed tears.

“I cannot promise to love you,” Draco begins, voice rasping with the weight of his emotions, “if only for the simple fact that I have never tried.

“But,” he leans forward, “I will, as I have vowed, cherish – and honor – and obey...every day, for the rest of our shared life.”

His fingers punctuate each word – brushing back errant curls from her forehead, her chin, her shoulders. “For better, for worse; for richer, for poorer; in sickness and in health…”

Trembling fingertips lightly trace the faint lines of her brow, the contours of her cheeks – before coming to rest over her heart.

“I am a practical man, a realist; some would say a ruthless pragmatist. But I am also notoriously selfish.” These words, murmured into the darkened, hushed air, are barely audible. “And I am selfish enough...to _want_ this, though I know I have done nothing to deserve it.

“I want _you,_ Hermione – ”

Has her name ever sounded so beautiful?

“ – to have, and to hold.”

“Ye cannot possess me,” Hermione quotes softly, “for I belong to myself.”

Clasping his hands stiff with tension, she tugs them gently toward her to place them on her waist – where they flex, and settle. Their mild heat radiating through her belly, she amends:

“But while we both wish it...I give ye that which is mine to give.”

Draco’s fair head bows under her pronouncement, lips finding shelter in the secret valley hidden between her breasts. Prostrate before her now, he is unspeakably _fragile._

“Say yes,” he begs hoarsely against her skin – open and raw and _vulnerable_ in an ecstatic agony of anticipation. “Say we might have this much, together.”

In an instant, she could crush him with a word.

Hermione’s gaze flits of its own volition over to the ornately-carved, scarred cherry dresser...where their wands lie, lined up, side by side.

She pauses for a moment – considering the uncanny wisdom of a master wandsmith...and the harmonious duality of hawthorn and vine.

“Vinewood,” she whispers reverently, “is renowned for its versatile nature, its innate flexibility.

“But,” she adds, feeling Draco freeze in sudden comprehension, “it could do with the support of a goodly tree.”

“...Hawthorn, perhaps?” he gasps, near-to-bursting with burgeoning hope.

“...What better?”

The kiss Draco presses right to the centre of her chest is wet with tearful gratitude as he sags into her, limbs quaking – in a full-bodied shudder of profound _relief._

As her arms wind around him, drawing him close, and her mouth presses a first kiss of its own to the feather-fine hair of his crown, Hermione thinks that, indeed, this has been a mistake –

– in their not having done this much, _much_ sooner…

_Ye are Blood of my Blood, and Bone of my Bone._

_I give ye my Body, that we Two might be One._

_I give ye my Spirit, 'til our Life shall be Done._


	4. Nipple Tease




	5. Just A Taste




	6. For Her Pleasure




	7. Getting Started




	8. Shoulder Kiss Bliss




	9. "Got You, Granger"




	10. Agony And Ecstasy




	11. Dragon Ride




	12. On Top




	13. Mirror, Mirror

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi'.


	14. Both At Once

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ye olde classic, the 'sixty-nine'.


	15. Hold Tight




	16. Knuckle Deep




	17. Sweet Cheeks




	18. Back Door




	19. Look Of Love




	20. Turning Heads

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Addendum to Dramione 18.


	21. "Like What You See?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes she likes to tease...


	22. "Feast Your Eyes"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...but so does he.


	23. Weak-Kneed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stand-up blowjob inspired by UptheHill's incredible artwork.


	24. Give Some, Get Some




	25. Fogged

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Against the window, or 'under glass' - wall sex, with a twist.


	26. Against The Wall




	27. Quick Bite




	28. On Their Knees




	29. From Behind




	30. Sling-Over




	31. Reach Around




	32. "Suck"




	33. Upside Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one's for raven_maiden - thanks for the kudos! - inspired by her fantastic series 'Meet the Malfoys', specifically 'The Third Constellation'... If you've read it, you might recognize this scene... ;)


	34. Strong-Armed




	35. Door-Jammed




	36. Topsy-Turvy




	37. Straddle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For all those looking for some good old-fashioned girl-on-top. Again, requested by CarrieMaxwell.


	38. Turn Around *NEW*




	39. Body Shots




	40. Full Facial




	41. Drippy




	42. Unconventional View *NEW*




	43. Overflow *NEW*




	44. Photo Finish *NEW*




	45. School Days

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Definitely what Draco and Hermione would've been up to by 6th year if I'd written the series...


	46. Making Music

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Piece requested by CarrieMaxwell. Thanks, Carrie!


	47. The Malfoy Library

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another request by CarrieMaxwell.


	48. On Display

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione plays dress-up...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just for your information: the ornate gilded-wood frame mirror behind Hermione has two carved dragons on it, one on either side of Draco's head; and the picture on the wall behind him is a Bateman painting of a raft of sea otters.


	49. So Close




	50. Sunday Romp




	51. Late Night Laughter




	52. Afterglow




	53. Under The Covers




	54. Morning Lie-In




	55. Her Favorite Pillow




	56. Draco Dormiens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Had to capitalize on this photo of a sleeping Tom.


	57. Lounging Around




	58. Kicking Back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Could not resist making use of this photo of Tom...


	59. Rest And Relaxation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You've seen Hermione's favorite pillow...now here's Draco's.


	60. Lachrimose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In good times and in bad...


	61. Doloroso

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...through ups and downs...


	62. Solatium

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...is grief borne and shared.


	63. Forehead Kiss




	64. Snuggle




	65. Introspection




	66. Tracings




	67. Mneme

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dolohov's curse remembered.


	68. Cogitation




	69. Bath Time




	70. Nose To Nose




	71. A Little Tongue




	72. Field Of Dreams




	73. CODA - Hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Out of suffering have emerged the strongest souls; the most massive characters are seared with scars.”  
> ― Kahlil Gibran

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work is now considered complete - further additions will be sporadic or nonexistent. Thankyou again for all the wonderful comments and support I have received from readers and the Dramione community as I worked on this project!


End file.
